A Dance at the Slaughter House Read online

Page 27

 

  NOT long before dawn he said, "Matt, would you say that Im an alcoholic?"

  "Oh, Jesus," I said. "How many years did it take me to say I was one myself? Im not in a hurry to take anybody elses inventory. "

  I got up and went to the mens room, and when I came back he said, "God knows I like the drink. Itd be a bad bastard of a world without it. "

  "Its that kind of world either way. "

  "Ah, but sometimes this stuff lets you lose sight of it for a while. Or at least it softens the focus. " He lifted his glass, gazed into it. "They say you cant stare at an eclipse of the sun with your naked eye. You have to look through a piece of smoked glass to save your vision. Isnt it as dangerous to see life straight on? And dont you need this smoky stuff to make it safe to look at?"

  "Thats a good way to put it. "

  "Well, bullshit and poetry, thats the Irish stock in trade. But let me tell you something. Do you know whats the best thing about drinking?"

  "Nights like this. "

  "Nights like this, but its not just the booze makes nights like this. Its one of us drinking and one of us not, and something else I couldnt lay my finger on. " He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "No," he said, "the best thing about drinking is a certain kind of moment that only happens once in a while. I dont know that it happens for everyone, either.

  "It happens for me on nights when Im sitting up alone with a glass and a bottle. Ill be drunk but not too drunk, you know, and Ill be looking off into the distance, thinking but not thinking- do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes. "

  "And therell be a moment when it all comes clear, a moment when I can just about see the whole of it. My mind reaches out and wraps itself around all of creation, and Im this close to having hold of it. And then"- he snapped his fingers- "its gone. Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes. "

  "When you drank, did you-"

  "Yes," I said. "Once in a while. But do you want to know something? Ive had the same thing happen sober. "

  "Have you now!"

  "Yes. Not often, and not at all the first two years or so. But every now and then Ill be sitting in my hotel room with a book, reading a few pages and then looking out the window and thinking about what Ive just read, or of something else, or of nothing at all. "

  "Ah. "

  "And then Ill have that experience just about as you described it. Its a kind of knowing, isnt it?"

  "It is. "

  "But knowing what? I cant explain it. I always took it for granted it was the booze that allowed it to happen, but then it happened sober and I realized it couldnt be that. "

  "Now youve given me something to think about. I never thought for a moment it could happen sober. "

  "It can, though. And its just as you described it. But Ill tell you something, Mick. When it happens to you sober, and youre seeing it without that piece of smoked glass-"

  "Ah. "

  "- and you have it, you just about have it, and then its gone. " I looked into his eyes. "It can break your heart. "

  "It will do that," he said. "Drunk or sober, it will break your heart. "

  IT was light out when he looked at his watch and got to his feet. He went into his office and came back wearing his butchers apron. It was white cotton, frayed here and there from years of laundering, and it covered him from the neck to below the knees. Bloodstains the color of rust patterned it like an abstract canvas. Some had faded almost to invisibility. Others looked fresh.

  "Come on," he said. "Its time. "

  We hadnt discussed it once throughout the long night but I knew where we were going and had no objections. We walked to the garage where he kept his car and rode down Ninth Avenue to Fourteenth Street. We turned left, and partway down the block he left the big car in a no-parking zone in front of a funeral parlor. The proprietor, Twomey, knew him and knew the car. It wouldnt be towed or ticketed.

  St. Bernards stood just east of Twomeys. I followed Mick up the steps and down the left-hand aisle. There is a seven oclock mass weekdays in the main sanctuary, which he had missed, but there is a smaller mass an hour later in a small chamber to the left of the altar, generally attended by a handful of nuns and various others who stopped in on their way to work. Micks father had done so virtually every day, and there were always butchers in attendance, though I dont know if anyone else called it the butchers mass.

  Mick attended sporadically, coming every day for a week or two, then staying away for a month. I had joined him a handful of times since Id come to know him. I wasnt sure why he went, and I certainly didnt know why I sometimes tagged along.

  This occasion was like all the others. I followed the service in the book and picked up my cues from the others, standing when they stood, kneeling when they knelt, mouthing the appropriate responses. When the young priest handed out the Communion wafers Mick and I stayed where we were. As far as I could tell, everybody else approached the altar and received the Host.

  Outside again Mick said, "Will you look at that?"

  It was snowing. Big soft flakes floated slowly down. It must have started just after we entered the old church. There was already a light dusting of snow on the church steps, and on the sidewalk.

  "Come on," he said. "Ill run you home. "

  Chapter 14

  I woke up around two after five hours of a restless, dream-ridden sleep, most of it suspended just a degree or two below the horizon of consciousness. All that coffee may have had something to do with it, much of it on a stomach unsupplied with food since the spinach pie at Tiffanys.

  I rang downstairs and told the desk clerk he could put through my calls again. The phone rang while I was in the shower. I called down again to see who it was, and the clerk said there was no message. "You had a few calls during the morning," he said, "but no messages. "

  I shaved and dressed and went out for breakfast. The snow had stopped falling but it was still fresh and white where human and vehicular traffic hadnt yet turned it to slush. I bought a paper and carried it back to the room. I read the paper and looked out the window at the snow on rooftops and window ledges. Wed had about three inches of it, enough to muffle some of the noise of the city. It was something pretty to look at while I waited for the phone to ring.

  The first to get through was Elaine, and I asked her if shed tried earlier. She hadnt. I asked her how she was feeling.

  "Not great," she said. "Im a little feverish and Ive got diarrhea, which is just the body trying to get rid of everything it doesnt need. That seems to include everything but bones and blood vessels. "

  "Do you think you ought to see a doctor?"

  "What for? Hell tell me Ive got this crud thats going around, and I already know that. Keep warm, drink lots of fluids. Right. The thing is, see, Im reading this book by Borges, hes this Argentinian writer whos blind. Hes also dead, but-"

  "But he wasnt when he wrote it. "

  "Right. And his work is kind of surreal and spacy, and I dont know where the writing leaves off and the fever starts, if you know what I mean. Part of the time it seems to me that this is not the best condition to be in while I read this stuff, and other times I think its the only way to do it. "

  I filled her in on some of what happened since our last conversation. I told her about the run-in with Thurman at Paris Green, and that Id spent a long night with Mick Ballou.

  "Oh, well," she said. "Boys will be boys. "

  I went back to the paper. There were two stories that particularly struck me. One reported that a jury had acquitted an alleged mob boss charged with ordering an assault on a union official. The acquittal had been expected, especially in view of the fact that the victim, shot several times in both legs, had seen fit to testify for the defense, and there was a photo of the dapper defendant surrounded by well-wishers and fans on his way out of the courthouse. This was the third time hed been brought to trial in the past four years, and the third time hed skated. He was, the reporter said, somethi
ng of a folk hero.

  The other story concerned a workingman whod been leaving the subway station with his four-year-old daughter when a homeless person, apparently deranged, attacked the pair and spat at them. In the course of defending himself the father pounded the lunatics head against the ground, and when it was over the homeless man was dead. A spokesman for the DAs office had announced the decision to prosecute the father for manslaughter. They ran a photo of him, looking confused and besieged. He wasnt dapper, and seemed an unlikely folk hero.

  I put the paper down and the phone rang again. I picked it up and a voice said, "Is this where its at?"

  It took me a moment. Then I said, "TJ?"

  "Where its at, Matt. Everybody want to know whos this dude, hangin loose on the Deuce, passin out cards an askin everybody wheres TJ. I was at the movies, man, watchin this kung fu shit. You know how to do that shit?"

  "No. "

  "That is some wild shit, man. Like to learn me some of that sometime. "

  I gave him my address and asked him if he could come up. "I dont know," he said. "What kind of hotel? One of them big fancy ones?"

  "Not fancy at all. They wont give you a hard time downstairs. If they do, just tell them to call me on the house phone. "

  "I guess that be all right. "

  I hung up, and it rang again almost immediately. It was Maggie Hillstrom, the woman from Testament House. She had shown my sketches to kids and staff members at both Old Testament House and New Testament House. No one could identify the younger boy or the man, although some of the kids had said that either or both of them looked familiar.

  "But I dont know how much stock to place in that," she said. "More to the point, we were able to identify the older boy. He never actually lived here but he did stay overnight on several occasions. "

  "Did you manage to come up with a name for him?"

  "Happy," she said. "Thats what he called himself. It seems ironic, doesnt it, and in a shabby way. I dont know if that was a long-standing nickname or if he acquired it here on the street. The consensus is that he was from the South or Southwest. A staff member seems to recall that he said he was from Texas, but a boy who knew him is just as certain he came from North Carolina. Of course he may have said different things to different people. "

  He was a hustler, she said. He went with men for money and took drugs when he could afford them. No one could recall having seen him within the past year.

  "They are forever disappearing," she said. "Its normal not to see them for a few days, and then suddenly youll realize you havent seen someone for a week or two weeks or a month. And sometimes they come back and sometimes they dont, and you never know if the next place they went to was better or worse for them. " She sighed. "One boy told me he thought Happy had most likely gone home. And, in a manner of speaking, perhaps he has. "

  THE next call was from the desk, announcing TJs arrival. I told them to send him on up and met him at the elevator. I took him to my room and he moved around it like a dancer, checking it out. "Hey, this is cool," he said. "See the Trade Center from here, cant you? An you got your own bathroom. Must be nice. "